The ball nestled in the back of the net. 2-0.
A deathly silence fell over the San Siro, so profound that you could hear the jubilant shouts from the small pocket of traveling Atalanta fans.
On the pitch, the Inter players stared at the ground, the fight Leon had just ignited in them seemingly extinguished by a single, perfect volley.
The commentator's voice, once booming with hype, was now a somber, funereal whisper. "And that, you have to feel, is that. A hammer blow from Teun Koopmeiners. The heroes of the Derby look utterly broken. A harsh lesson is being taught here today: in football, fairy tales have a nasty habit of coming to an abrupt and brutal end."
On the sideline, Coach Chivu stood motionless, his face like stone. He didn't yell. He didn't scream. He just watched, his expression one of cold, hard disappointment.
But as the Atalanta players celebrated, Leon felt a strange calm wash over him. The fury was gone, replaced by an ice-cold clarity.
